


Of Salt and Honey

by ObliObla



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hell, Hurt Lucifer, One Shot, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-10-10 18:11:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20532380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObliObla/pseuds/ObliObla
Summary: “Liar,” the voice says, soft and cold.“No,” Lucifer growls, pulling at the chains that bind him, wrapped around his wrists, his ankles.





	Of Salt and Honey

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheYahwehDance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheYahwehDance/gifts).

“Liar,” the voice says, soft and cold.

“No,” Lucifer growls, pulling at the chains that bind him, wrapped around his wrists, his ankles.

“Coward,” it spits, watching him with a blank and familiar expression.

He shakes his head, and his hair, grown long down in the dark, falls over his eyes in curls dampened by pain-sweat. He doesn’t know how long it’s been, only knows the bitterness in his mouth that tastes of gall.

“Murderer.”

But he cannot deny it, can only slump, his energy spent, the manacles cutting into his wrists, the blood dripping steadily to the floor.

* * *

_Peaches._

They are piled high in their silver bowl, and Lucifer presses closer, inhaling their fragrant aroma. The heat of the sun is still upon them when he selects one, testing its firmness with his fingertips, bringing it up to his mouth to taste.

The flavor bursts across his tongue in a vibrant spray of joy and honey, and he sighs in something like completion, taking another bite. Another.

It tastes of memories, and he loses itself to it—of bright and pleasant conversation, of long, sultry evenings, and of the storms that come after, driving humans indoors and compelling him to look up to a sky covered over with clouds, and think of the stars, and laugh. Or weep.

He scrapes the last of the flesh from the pit with his teeth and thinks of wood fires hissing from the fat that drips off roasts, of linen sheets, cool and welcoming, of the warm dust of old books and the tart sharpness of the ink. He trails his fingertips over his chin to catch at the juice, and draws it to his lips, savoring every drop of sunlight and glory.

* * *

“Slanderer,” the voice cries, out of the boundless night, and Lucifer shuts his eyes against the accusation.

“No, _no_…” But his words are so weak even he can barely hear them, and they’re lost to his panting breaths as he tries to regain his feet and finds it impossible.

“Don’t you call yourself ‘Devil’?” it asks cruelly, and he no longer has the strength to respond, can only feel the coldness of the metal on his skin, the shuddering of his exhalations over his lips even as he tries to draw in enough air to force his eyes open.

But they remain closed.

* * *

Lucifer’s eyes are closed in something like rapture, the bowl emptied of everything but the pits, sucked dry by his wanting mouth. Their scent clings to his lips, his chin, and he revels in this debauchery, tipping his head back, feeling starlight burst across the inside of his eyelids, tasting the nectar still.

He licks his lips idly, and the flavor redoubles, mixing with the salt on his lip that draws his mind to rolling oceans, to placid seas—to the sweet tang of kneeling and giving and sharing.

But here, up so high in this palace he has built for himself, he is alone.

* * *

The voice mocks, cajoles, insults, and Lucifer takes its words almost gladly, now, mortifying himself before its punishing gaze. His flesh is already rent, but it splits further, like overripe fruit, and weeps its ichor onto soil barren but for the malignant whispers that creep into his ears.

It is poison in this garden devoid of trees, of warmth, of _sun, _and he is its lesser serpent—no longer the bringer of temptation, or even thrall to desire, but a beast condemned to crawl upon the earth, eating nothing but pleasures fallen to dust.

And he is fallen as well, to less even than dust.

“Who are you?” he finally chokes out, when every implement of torture he could have imagined has been applied and cast aside. He will never escape this place, he knows; he wishes only to know the name—to curse, to praise, to pray to.

And the monster comes out of the darkness, smiling. “I am called Samael,” it says.

“Time is fluid here.”


End file.
